Catch a Mate (5 page)

“Cool.” She twirled a denim string around her finger.

She didn't sound impressed by his origins the way most women were, just curious—and even that, not so much. Maybe he'd done what he'd set out to do in the first place: made her dislike him so much she'd never be tempted to sleep with him. Which was exactly what he'd wanted. Really.

“I've lived in the States half of my life, though,” he said, just to expand the conversation.

“Cool,” she repeated, clearly still not really caring.

I'm not fucking boring.
He chugged another gulp of beer and glanced at his wristwatch. One hour and forty-seven minutes before they were due at the club. Surely he could spark her fury again—uh, continue to smooth things over—in that time.

“Well,” she said. She, too, glanced at her watch, a silver chain that looped around her small wrist bone. “I guess I should start getting ready for tonight's assignment….”

A roundabout way of saying get the hell out. Funny, she'd been more forthright earlier. “I thought you were already prepared.” He should want to leave. He did want to leave. She was trouble, their conversation had the potential of becoming even more boring—weather, for God's sake; he still couldn't get over that—and things were probably as smooth as they'd ever be between them. “That's why you turned down my offer of aid, remember?”

“I—well.” She leaned forward, black curls falling over her face as she rested her elbow on her knee. He was given a spectacular glimpse of her cleavage. Round breasts, absolutely perfect. No bra. His favorite. “Look,” she said. “We got off to a bad start. You apologized,” she added dryly, “and I accepted. Sitting around chatting isn't doing either one of us any good. Let's cut our losses now, before we drive each other to suicide.”

Okay. That pissed him off royally. Drive her to suicide, indeed. He was allowed to feel boredom; she wasn't. Not that he'd felt any, damn it.

“Since you so sweetly patched things up between us,” Jillian continued, “we'll now be cordial to each other at the office. That doesn't mean we need to socialize after hours.”

“I didn't ask you to socialize after hours, now, did I?” There was more heat and anger in his tone than he'd intended.

“Good.” She popped her jaw, silent for a moment. “Because I'd rather crochet oven mitts with my depressed mother than spend another second in your company.”

The excitement that ignited every time they fought returned full force. “I'm going to make you eat your words,” he said, praying he was bluffing because he truly couldn't afford to sleep with her, which was a damn shame, but still. “And you're going to find every one of them delicious. You'll even beg me for a second helping.”

She shivered. A shiver of dread? Or anticipation? “The only thing I'll be begging for,” she said, “is your absence.”

“I wouldn't say anything else if I were you. The more you say, the more you'll regret later.”

She yawned. “Your accent is annoying.”

“Liar.” He hoped. “Do you like to gamble?”

“No,” she said, brow furrowed with confusion over the sudden change in topics.

Too bad. Would have made her irresistible, so maybe he should be happy about that. Already he wanted her, which wasn't necessarily a newsflash. Stripping her, throwing her on the ground and penetrating her would be a bonus.

“Don't look at me like that,” she growled.

“Like what?”

“Like I'm dinner.”

“Want to be?” he couldn't help but ask.
You can't have her, idiot!

“No,” she gasped.

Good. He was glad about that. Really. “I guess you do know something about poker. You're a good bluffer.”

“I never bluff.”

“Please. You're all about the bluff, Dimples. And FYI, you're going to lose our bet tonight.” He said it just to bring them back on track, even though he wanted to continue down the slippery slope of temptation. “I have every faith that Darren Sawyer will see you for the walking heartbreak you are and send you on your way.” Marcus stretched to his feet and strode to the door. Better to leave now before he did something more stupid than getting a hard-on while discussing sunshine and cool breezes.

Was there anything more stupid than that, though?

God, he was tempted to turn around, leap across the room and kiss those lush, pink lips of hers, drinking in her breath until she could only gasp his name. Hell, maybe he
should
do it, just to get it out of his system. He was primed and ready. Kissing wasn't sex, and as long as they didn't have sex, they'd be fine.

Yeah. Right.

If he started kissing her, he wouldn't stop until he'd kissed every inch of her. No kissing. He quickened his steps to the nearest exit.

“I have every faith someone's going to murder you while you sleep,” she called after him.

He grinned. Yep, it was a damn shame she was off-limits.

M
USIC BLASTED
from large speakers that hung overhead. Smoke billowed in every direction, cutting through the darkness. Waiters and waitresses pranced back and forth, serving drinks and smiles. A strobe light swirled from the center of the two-story structure, illuminating the throng of writhing, dancing patrons in a multitude of colors. There was more skin displayed here than was usually found between the pages of
Playboy.
More breasts and thighs than the good Colonel served on any given day.

Ah, yes. It was Friday night and The Meat Market was open for business.

Jillian worked her way through the gyrating, sweating crowd. Her camera and mic were in place, pinned at the cleavage of her tank in the form of a bejeweled flower. Everything was being transmitted to and monitored on Anne's computer. Tomorrow, she'd review the feed with Anne, who would then meet with Darren Sawyer's girlfriend. Poor thing.

Jillian wouldn't be there for the meeting—to avoid outbursts of jealousy, bait was never allowed in the room when the victim was told. But if she chose, she could watch from the screen as Georgia had this morning. Sometimes she did that, too, sometimes she didn't. She didn't think she would this time. This girlfriend was a crier; she knew it, felt it and didn't think she could stand to see another woman cry.

As Jillian sauntered toward the bar, her purse bounced at her side. In it, she carried Mace, lip gloss, a little cash and a slightly tampered-with ID. She never wanted a target to locate her home address, therefore all of her identification listed CAM's. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a table of twentysomething women. All but one laughed and chatted. The one who didn't looked…sad as she stared into a margarita glass.

Had she been cheated on? Was this the girls' night out that was supposed to cheer her up? How many of those had Jillian witnessed over the years?

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone said, drawing her attention. “I'm fighting the urge to make you the happiest woman on earth tonight.”

She ignored him. Lord save her from cheesy come-ons.

She found herself scanning the masses for Marcus rather than her target. Was he here yet? Had he changed out of his sinful jeans? After all, those jeans had proudly showcased his very large erection the entire time he'd been inside her house. Wrong, that's what it was. He should wear a tent to keep that thing hidden. No woman should be subjected to that and no man should be that well-endowed
and
gorgeous. And what the hell had excited him? A discussion about the freaking weather?

No doubt about it. Marcus was strange.

Never mind that she'd felt white-hot embers of desire the whole time he'd been there. Never mind that fighting with him had aroused her. Again.
I hate that man.

Wherever he was, whatever he was wearing, he was damn well going to watch her win their bet. She would rub it in his face for the rest of his life. Not that she planned to know him that long. She wanted him fired ASAP. He was too dangerous to her peace of mind. Too dangerous, period.

When she reached the bar, a man in his mid-to-late fifties offered her an eager grin. Or was that a scowl? Hard to tell with Botox. He held out a chair for her as he looked her up and down, lingering on her breasts, between her legs. He had thick silver hair, a plastic face and a suit-clad body that shouted wealth. He even smelled expensive. And he was wearing a wedding ring.

“My name's Ted but you can call me anything you want, as long as you call me,” he said. “I hope you don't mind my saying so, but your body is exquisite.”

“Thanks, grandpa,” she muttered, taking the seat. She was in a bad mood. Which could totally be blamed on Marcus. All men were on her shit list just then.
Aren't they always?

“Grandpa?” His frozen expression didn't change, though his eyes glinted with affront. Jillian often had that effect on people. Without another word, he slinked away. If he hadn't been wearing a ring, she would have felt guilty for insulting him.
Am I becoming cruel and heartless like Marcus said?

“Ginger ale,” she told the bartender, a stacked little bleached blonde with bright orange streaks in her hair. Jillian would have liked a beer, but drinking on the job only caused mistakes, so she never indulged.

Her drink arrived a moment later and she sipped from the straw. The coolness wet her too-dry mouth, the sweetness teased her tongue. God, would this night—

“Screwdriver,” a sexy voice said, suddenly beside her. The speaker didn't touch her, but she felt his luscious heat, smelled pure sin. Wanted. Yes, she wanted.

Marcus.

She shivered and sipped again at her soda, the sugary carbonation now like acid in her throat. She forced her attention to remain straight ahead—even though she felt Marcus's eyes on her, burning bright, burning…burning…Time to concentrate and find her target.

“Make it two,” he added, his accent suddenly thick and richly erotic, as if he'd just gotten off a plane from England. “One for me and one for the special lady next to me.”

Obviously they didn't share the same beliefs about drinking on the job.

“Aren't you just the prettiest thing,” he said then. Gone was all hint of his earlier disdain and in its place was smooth charm. Seduction. Persuasion. His warm breath caressed the back of her neck and she once again found her nipples hardening in his presence, her blood sizzling. Her heart even skipped a beat as provocative tingles moved over her skin.

Jillian pressed her lips together. What did he think he was doing, talking to her like this? After the way he'd treated her today, she had expected him to arrive with a pitchfork and a one-way ticket to hell with her name on it. This had to be some sort of game to throw her off guard, to make her lose their bet.

Yes, that's exactly what he meant to do, she realized, hand clenching on her drink. Well, she would show him.

Drawing in a deep breath, she turned toward him and, starting at his feet, gradually moved her gaze up his body. He hadn't bothered changing, was still wearing those butt-hugging, erection-showing jeans and that muscle-kissing T-shirt. The only difference in his appearance was the very masculine, black stone necklace he now wore, which she suspected was actually a camera.

His eyes were dark and luminous, at half-mast, radiating a single word: orgasm. His hair was disheveled and fell over his forehead. His lips were lush and slightly parted.
Kiss me,
they said. She loved—hated!—the way the strobe light surrounded him in a bright multicolored halo. An angel. A fallen angel.

“Is that the best pick-up line you've got?” she asked, her voice more breathless than she'd planned. “Because it sucks.”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn't talking to you.” He grabbed his drinks, swirling the ice, and moved around her, only to skirt up to the woman on her left.

Jillian's jaw dropped open and she gasped. Why, that rat bastard! He'd done that on purpose. Payback for telling him she'd rather kill herself than talk to him? When she took over CAM, he was
soooo
fired.

The woman's cheeks bloomed with a pretty blush as he leaned over and whispered in her ear. Her ash-blond hair was teased and sprayed, her makeup just a little too thick. Her look-at-me dress could have earned her the title of Whore of Babylon if Jillian hadn't already held that title herself.

“What's your name, love?” Marcus asked her, his back to Jillian. His accent was even heavier than before. And he'd called the woman “love.” She suspected his soft, lush lips were curled in a devastating smile. And he'd called the woman “love.” She had no doubt his brown eyes were glowing with a knowing, wicked intent. And he'd called the freaking woman “love.”

Why do you even care?

I don't,
she assured herself. She certainly didn't want him for herself. No way. No thanks. He probably hadn't had all his shots.

The woman giggled like a schoolgirl. But Jillian was willing to bet the only class that female had attended lately was Slut 101. And no, she wasn't jealous. She was merely stating a fact.
Don't be cruel. You're pro-female, remember?

“I'm Rhonda, but my friends call me Ronnie. With an
ie.
”

“Well, Ronnie with an
i e,
I'm Mark and I've bought you a drink. I saw you and just had to approach.”

Another giggle. “I'm so glad. I've been eyeing you since the moment you walked inside and I would have cried if you'd ignored me.”

Jillian practically threw up in her mouth. He was letting Ronnie with an
i e
call him Mark and
she would have freaking cried if he had ignored her.
Please. Again her hands clenched around her ginger ale.

“Are you married, Ronnie with an
i e?
” he asked.

Jillian watched unabashedly as Ronnie lost her grin and dropped her left hand behind her back—as if her two-caret rock hadn't been visible during the beginning of the conversation. “Oh, uh. No. Just divorced.”

“Have the intelligence to take it off before you go out, at least,” Jillian muttered.

Marcus tossed Jillian a pointed glance. And wouldn't you know it was a quick
I told you so?
His features gleamed with victory.

Jillian flipped him off. His lips twitched into a smile. Enjoying himself, was he?

Ronnie with an
i e
hurried to change the subject, tracing her right hand along his shirt to regain his attention. “Where're you from, Mark? I can't place your accent. Wait, let me guess. Somewhere with sun, right? Australia?” She paused. “I'm right, aren't I? You're so tan.”

“You should ask him about the weather there,” Jillian said and turned away. “He really likes that.” The man wasn't just a pig, he was bacon, already sliced and ready to be served. So he'd made his point. So what. Some females were as nefarious as males. Big deal. That didn't change the fact that on the scales of immorality, men won. Every time.

She downed the rest of her soda, wishing it were a (double) shot of tequila. The giggling continued. The nauseating
love
endearment was used several more times and Marcus was blatantly propositioned each time, which he expertly sidestepped with compliments about her hair, eyes and “amazing” curves.

It was pure torture, listening to the sickening exchange.

“Hey, Ronnie with an
i e,
” she found herself saying as she slammed her glass onto the counter. She turned back to the happy couple, expression purposefully concerned as she peeked over Markie's shoulder.

Marcus scowled at her, but there was only devilry in his eyes as he leaned forward to—smell her hair? She frowned. Ronnie frowned, too, not liking that she'd been interrupted.

“I wouldn't get too attached to this one,” Jillian said, patting Marcus's shoulder. “I hear he's a premature ejaculator.”

Marcus choked on his drink. Ronnie's mouth fell open. When Marcus was able to breathe, he stiffened and glared at Jillian, all hint of devilry gone.

She flashed him an innocent eyelash flutter. A second later, she caught a glimpse of a muscle-bound hulk entering the club. Familiar receding hairline. Familiar strong jaw. Darren Sawyer. Her target. Thank God.

When she first started working for CAM, nervousness had hit her every time she initially spotted her target. Not anymore. The nerves had soon turned to righteous indignation. Tonight, however, she felt pure, undiluted anticipation.

Let the games begin.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Will you two excuse me? I've just spotted a little slice of heaven right here on this earth and I've
got
to meet him or
I'll cry.
” She strolled away, swaying her hips, knowing Marcus had to watch her in action as Anne wanted.

Her steps lighter than they'd been all day, her pointed heels clicking on painted concrete, she closed the distance between her and Darren. He was here with two of his friends and they were all grinning like idiots as they surveyed tonight's selection of booty. They found an empty table in the back, eased into their chairs and ordered drinks. Darren didn't order the beer he supposedly couldn't live without, she noticed when the waitress brought him three shots of tequila.

Jillian couldn't help it; she allowed herself a single backward glance through the thickening crowd to the bar, where Marcus stood peering at her through narrowed eyes. Ronnie (with an
i e
) was tugging on his arm, but he didn't look at her.

Now Jillian had his full attention and the thought made her shiver. Hell, the heat in his dark, dark eyes made her shiver. “Watch and learn,” she mouthed.

“Good luck,” he mouthed back with a smug expression.

I don't need it.
She turned back to Darren and, having reached her target, “accidentally” bumped into him, skidding his chair backward. His arms wrapped around her to keep her from tumbling the rest of the way into their table. She was careful to hide her revulsion. “Watch where you're—” he began.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, layering her voice with equal measures of embarrassment and naughtiness. “How clumsy of me.”

He lost his anger when his gaze locked on her cleavage, so proudly displayed by her V-neck. When Marcus had looked at her like that, she'd wanted to jump him. Darren, she just wanted to knee in the balls.

“No problem,” he said leeringly.

“That last pink nipple must have really gotten to me. Oh, my.” She squeezed his biceps and willed herself to blush—a skill that had taken her more than a year to master. “Thank you for catching me. You probably saved my life.”

He puffed up like a peacock. “Well, then, I guess that means you owe me.”

“Guess so.” She smiled, secretly gagging.

His companions laughed and one of them said, “Why don't you join us, honey?”